“Why?”
“I don’t know,” Louisa said with a shrug. “No one knows. Jealousy, maybe? Mr. Grey is terribly handsome. All the ladies fall at his feet.”
“I should like to see that,” Annabel mused, imagining the scene. She pictured a blond Adonis, muscles straining his waistcoat, wading through a sea of unconscious females. It would be best if a few of them were still somewhat sentient, perhaps tugging on his leg, setting him off balance—
“Annabel!”
Annabel snapped to attention. Louisa was addressing her with uncommon urgency, and she’d do well to listen.
“Annabel, this is important,” Louisa said.
Annabel nodded, and an unfamiliar feeling washed over her—maybe of gratitude, certainly of love. She’d only just got to know her cousin, but already there was a deep bond of affection, and she knew that Louisa would do everything in her power to keep Annabel from making an unhappy alliance.
Unfortunately, Louisa’s power was, in this capacity, limited. And she did not—no, she could not—understand the pressures of being the eldest daughter of an impoverished family.
“Listen to me,” Louisa implored. “Lord Newbury’s son died, oh, I think it must be a bit over a year ago. And he started looking for a wife before his son was cold in his grave.”
“Shouldn’t he have found one by now, then?”
Louisa shook her head. “He almost married Mariel Willingham.”
“Who?” Annabel blinked, trying to place the name.
“Exactly. You’ve never heard of her. She died.”
Annabel felt her eyebrows rise. It was really a rather emotionless delivery of such tragic news.
“Two days before the wedding she took a chill.”
“She died in only two days?” Annabel asked. It was a morbid question, but, well, she had to know.
“No. Lord Newbury insisted upon delaying the ceremony. He said it was for her welfare, that she was too ill to stand up in church, but everyone knew that he really just wanted to make sure she was healthy enough to bear him a son.”
“And then?”
“Well, and then she did die. She lingered for about a fortnight. It was really very sad. She was always very kind to me.” Louisa gave her head a little shake, then continued. “It was a near miss for Lord Newbury. If he’d married her, he would have had to go into mourning. As it was, he had already tried to wed scandalously soon after his son’s death. If Miss Willingham hadn’t died before the wedding, he’d have had another year of black.”
“How long did he wait before looking for someone else?” Annabel asked, dreading the answer.
“Not more than two weeks. Honestly, I don’t think he would have waited that long if he thought he could have got away with it.” Louisa looked about, her eyes falling on Annabel’s sherry. “I need some tea,” she said.
Annabel rose and rang for it, not wanting Louisa to break the narrative.
“After he returned to London,” Louisa said, “he began to court Lady Frances Sefton.”
“Sefton,” Annabel murmured. She knew that name but couldn’t quite place it.
“Yes,” Louisa said animatedly. “Exactly. Her father is the Earl of Brompton.” She leaned forward. “Lady Frances is the third of nine children.”
“Oh my.”
“Miss Willingham was the eldest of only four, but she…” Louisa trailed off, clearly unsure of how to phrase it politely.
“Was shaped like me?” Annabel offered.
Louisa nodded grimly.
Annabel gave a wry grimace. “I suppose he never looked twice in your direction.”
Louisa looked down at herself, all seven and a half stone of her. “Never.” And then, in a most uncharacteristic display of blasphemy, she added, “ThankGod .”
“What happened to Lady Frances?” Annabel asked.
“She eloped. With afootman .”
“Good heavens. But she must have had a prior attachment, wouldn’t you think? One wouldn’t run off with a footman just to avoid marriage to an earl.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Well, no,” Annabel said. “It’s not at all practical.”
“I don’t think she was thinking about practicality. I think she was thinking about marriage to that…that…”
“I beseech you, do not finish that sentence.”
Louisa kindly complied.
“If one were going to avoid marriage to Lord Newbury,” Annabel continued, “I would think there must be better ways to do it than marrying a footman. Unless of course she was in love with the footman. That changes everything.”
“Well, it’s neither here nor there. She dashed off to Scotland and no one has heard from her. By then the season was over. I’m sure Lord Newbury has been looking for a bride ever since, but I would think it’s much easier during the season, when everyone is gathered together. Plus,” Louisa added, almost as an afterthought, “if he had been pursuing another lady, I’d hardly have heard about it. He lives in Hampshire.”
Whereas Louisa would have spent the entire winter in Scotland, shivering in her castle.
“And now he’s back,” Annabel stated.
“Yes, and now that he’s lost an entire year, he’ll want to find someone quickly.” Louisa looked over at her with a horrible expression—part pity, part resignation. “If he is interested in you, he’s not going to waste any time with a courtship.”
Annabel knew it was true, and she knew that if Lord Newbury did propose, she’d have a very difficult time refusing. Her grandparents had already indicated that they supported the match. Her mother would have allowed her to refuse, but her mother was nearly a hundred miles away. And Annabel knew exactly the expression she’d see in her mother’s eyes as she assured her she didn’t have to marry the earl.
There would be love, but there would also be worry. There was always worry on her mother’s face lately. The first year after her father’s death there had been grief, but now there was only worry. Annabel thought that her mother was so worried about how to support her family that there was no longer any time for grief.
Lord Newbury would, if he did indeed wish to marry her, bring enough financial support to ease her mother’s burdens. He could pay her brothers’ tuitions. And provide dowries for her sisters.
Annabel would not consent to marry him unless he agreed to do so. In writing.
But she was getting ahead of herself. He had not asked to marry her. And she had not decided that she would say yes. Or had she?
Chapter Two
The following morning
Newbury’s got his eye on a new one.”
Sebastian Grey opened one eye to look at his cousin Edward, who was sitting across from him, eating a pie-like substance that even from across the room smelled revolting. His head was pounding—too much champagne the night before—and he decided he liked the room better dark.
He closed his eye.
“I think he’s serious this time,” Edward said.
“He was serious the last three times,” Sebastian replied, directing the comment to the insides of his eyelids.
“Hmm, yes,” came Edward’s voice. “Bad luck for him. Death, elopement, and what happened with the third?”
“Showed up at the altar with child.”
Edward chuckled. “Maybe he should have taken that one. At least he would have known she was fertile.”
“I suspect,” Sebastian replied, shifting his position to better accommodate his long legs on the sofa, “that even I am preferable to some other man’s bastard.” He gave up on trying to find a comfortable position and heaved both legs over the arm, letting his feet dangle over the side. “Difficult though it is to imagine.”
He thought about his uncle for a few moments, then attempted to thrust him from his mind. The Earl of Newbury always put him in a bad mood, and his head hurt enough already as it was. They’d always been at odds, uncle and nephew, but it hadn’t really mattered until a year and a half earlier, when Sebastian’s cousin Geoffrey had died. As soon as it had become apparent that Geoffrey’s widow was not increasing, and that Sebastian was the heir presumptive to the earldom, Newbury hurried himself off to London to search for a new bride, declaring that he would die before he allowed Sebastian to inherit.